


Going Too Fast: A Fable For Our Time

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Inspired By Tumblr, OK so crowley doesn't know that it's established, Other, Pining, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 13:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: Crowley's going to do it. He's going to admit to Aziraphale that he's in love with the angel. That he's always loved him. There's no way this can go wrong, right?(Inspired by a Tumblr post that posited that Aziraphale is under the impression that they've been married for a couple thousand years, while Crowley doesn't even think they're dating.)





	Going Too Fast: A Fable For Our Time

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this isn't truly deep in my heart my headcanon, but I liked this post SO MUCH I had to write it: https://ace-trainer-risu.tumblr.com/post/186037271116/i-like-the-idea-of-crowley-dramatically-confessing

Crowley was, above all, _smooth_. He was _cool_. He had style, panache, sex appeal, _it_. It set him apart from other demons, who generally had the exact opposite of all of that. It meant he could glide through humanity, get away with whatever he liked, and get close to anyone who needed a whisper in the ear. He could learn passwords and bank account numbers with ease, knew all the spies' tricks, and didn't have a little black book, because he didn't need such things.

Crowley reminded himself of all of this as he finished getting ready. His hair was long again, brushing his shoulders, just a bit wavy. His sunglasses were very modern and very, very expensive. His watch was not understated in any way. Neither was the ruby on the gold ring he slipped on.

(Crowley believed in, before he left the house, _adding_ an accessory to whatever he was wearing.)

He swaggered out to the car, carrying a bottle of whiskey in a presentation box so matte and black and tasteful, with the maker's name in the tiniest of letters, it _screamed_ expensive.

(Whatever number you are thinking of, add a zero. Now add another zero. You're getting close!)

As usual, traffic was a thing that happened to other people, and Crowley enjoyed the drive, short as it was, to the bookshop. He parked across the street and froze, hands still gripping the steering wheel.

“You can do this,” he told himself.

He stayed in the car.

“People do it all the time. It is a _major literary theme_,” he told the inside of the car.

“It's just a drink. Nothing else has to _happen_,” he said, and glared out at the road. A pothole appeared.

This evidence of his power and coolness and general demon-ness got Crowley out of the car and into the bookshop. He ignored the CLOSED sign; the doorknob always turned under his hand and he let himself in.

“Angel?” he called.

“In the back!” came the answering cry, and Crowley picked his way through a small labyrinth of shelves to find a lightly dusty angel tucked away at his desk, making meticulous notes on an even dustier volume.

“Whiskey?” Crowley asked, holding up the box.

“Oh, go on then.” Aziraphale emitted an enormous sigh. “I do apologize for how dirty everything is. The condition of these books was _totally_ misrepresented to me. Look!” He pointed at one page. “_Sellotape_,” he said, in a tone most people used to refer to Tories and other things lower than vermin. “Someone repaired this book with _sellotape_.” He was quivering in rage.

Crowley made a consoling sound, and poured them each a healthy couple of fingers, setting Aziraphale's glass out of range of his elbow. This was going to be hard enough without sudden miracles.

He settled down on the sofa that was usually his when they had these evenings together, stretched out and savoured his drink. Crowley was going to get _just_ the right amount of drunk. The perfect balance between being suave and unafraid and plausible deniability if everything went tits-up.

Aziraphale worked a little longer, making notes of repairs he could do himself, the more complex ones he'd have to send the books out for, and generally muttering over the newest additions to his hoard. Crowley usually spent this time bitching about Hell, or whining to Aziraphale how bored he was, but tonight he was quiet.

He liked watching Aziraphale work. He liked the wrinkles on his forehead, the way he bent over the book, his neat notes. Crowley even, despite his best efforts, liked Aziraphale's stupid tiny spectacles.

He was in love. He had long accepted it but thought that, now that the whole anti-Christ thing had been sorted out, perhaps it was time to do something about it. Crowley was a little fuzzier on this part of the plan; he thought he might ask if he could court Aziraphale. Really woo him properly, as opposed to the half-assed indulgences he'd spend the last few millennia faffing about with.

When Crowley set out to win you, you were damn well won, and you knew it.

Option B was to confess it all, to announce that he loved Aziraphale and never wanted to be parted from him, that he had loved him for centuries now and would do anything the angel asked of him. Option B, if it came into play, would soon be followed, Crowley was sure, by Option B1. Option B1 was to flee the earth and hide among a nebula in shame until everything really _did_ end.

Crowley wasn't much of a planner, but Option B1 comforted him.

Far sooner than he'd expected, Aziraphale looked up. “Oh, my dear, do forgive me. I'm being so rude.” He sneezed, and Crowley waved his hand, disappearing all the dust from the books, and from Aziraphale for that matter.

The angel admired the newly-clean fabric of his coat, touching the pristine shoulder seam. “Oh, _thank you_. I do so appreciate it – you're really very good at that, Crowley.”

“That's me,” Crowley said, and tried to come up with a wisecrack. It wasn't coming, so instead he took a large swallow of his drink, and hoped no one would notice.

Aziraphale smiled fondly at him, and took off his reading glasses, folding them away neatly in their little case, which was placed precisely on his table. He stood and removed his coat, hanging it by his desk.

This was Aziraphale's equivalent to coming home after a long day and taking off your bra and trousers the moment you were inside your front door.

He saluted Crowley with his glass and took an appreciative sip. “Oh, you spoil me. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley's brain raced to find a smartarse response, but his mouth was already ahead. “You're welcome,” he mumbled.

“Everything all right?” Aziraphale asked as he dropped into an easy chair. “You're awfully quiet.”

“Everything's fine,” Crowley said, and drank faster. He was acting _suspicious_, oh Satan, the angel suspected. Option B1 was looking better and better all the time. “Just. Y'know. Quiet.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Well, as long as everything's fine. Though I suppose it will be, for quite some time. Heaven and Hell licking their wounds, and all.” He gave another tiny, firm nod. “And meanwhile, I can enjoy a day's work well done, and this wonderful whiskey with you. I do believe we've won, Crowley.”

“Oh my Go- Sa-. _Angel_. Of course we won. I love you, and I've been in love with you for centuries,” Crowley said. He sat up properly and covered his mouth. Option B1 was definitely going to be a winner.

“Yes, darling, I know.” Aziraphale looked a little puzzled. “I love you too?”

Crowley's jaw actually dropped, and although he didn't need to breathe, he sucked in a breath because it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Surely _you_ knew?” Aziraphale asked, deeply concerned.

Crowley continued to gasp for breath. He downed the rest of his glass, refilled it, and downed it again, coming up sputtering when it proved to be water. “Dirty play!”

“It is not, you're acting _strangely_,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, don't look so concerned, there's plenty left in the bottle. Crowley, what on earth brought this on?”

“I just. I. Love you?” Crowley tried again.

“And I you, dear boy. I thought we'd settled this?”

“_When_?” Crowley choked out. Sure, he'd got blackout drunk with Aziraphale plenty of times, but Aziraphale was always _also_ drunk and what was he _forgetting_?

“...the centuries wherein we rescued each other?” Aziraphale ventured. “Our first date in Rome? With the oysters?”

“_Rome_?” Crowley squeaked. Satan's balls, he'd been dressed like the tackiest out-of-towner and been in a foul mood and also looked greasy and ridiculous and that had been their _first date_?

Perhaps he deserved centuries of unnecessary pining as a punishment for that.

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale said patiently. “I've loved you since...well, not quite the moment I met you,” he admitted. “But that wasn't you, that was all on me. And I fell in love quite soon after. Truly, you're surprised by this?”

“Yes! Yes, I am very surprised!” Crowley blinked at him, sure he'd lost all control over his pupils. Well, Aziraphale had never minded his golden eyes “Aziraphale. Angel. I. Did it at any point occur to you to maybe mention this to me?”

“But I did,” Aziraphale said, puzzled. “All those times we spent together. All the fun we've had. The Arrangement. Crowley, how did you not know I was madly in love with you?” He shook his head. “Of course I knew you loved me in return. How many times have you saved my life?”

Crowley did the mental equivalent of a man falling down a cliff-face, and reached out for any toehold he could get. “What was all that about 'you go too fast for me' then?”

Aziraphale looked down his nose.

It was a very, very cute nose, and Crowley hated it.

“Crowley. Darling. _You drive ninety miles per hour in London_.”

“That's not my fault,” Crowley muttered, and rubbed his eyes, burying his face in his hands. “Sorry, sorry. Give me a moment.”

“Oh, Crowley.” There was a soft rustle, and then the sofa cushion dipped. “I'm the one who ought to apologize.” Aziraphale's arm came around Crowley's shoulders. It was very warm and soft and strong. “I truly didn't know you had no idea.”

“Angels. Different...rituals. Different ways of loving,” Crowley said thickly. “Right.”

“It sounds like it,” Aziraphale said ruefully.

“How _do_ you do it up there?” Crowley asked, very carefully not moving from where Aziraphale was now holding him. His hands were still over his face so he couldn't see anything, because if he could see that dear face right next to his, he would discorporate.

“Well, mostly we don't,” Aziraphale said. “I think there's poetry and celestial harmonies and things. I'm...odd. As you know.”

“You're bloody wonderful,” Crowley said thickly.

“Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale rested a hand on his knee, and Crowley tried not to shake too obviously. “How do you do it down there?”

“Badly,” Crowley said, and dropped his hands to cover Aziraphale's and sighed. “I'm odd too. As you know.”

“You're also quite wonderful,” Aziraphale said softly. “I won't ask for details, then. What do you _want_ to do?”

“Take you out to dinner. Take you to the best restaurants in the world, and watch you eat. Go to libraries and museums and on walks. Go to the theatre with you. Give you flowers and chocolates and good whiskey. Save your life when you need it. Stop time when you need _that_. Be with you all your days, be beside you and love you and bring you hot cocoa in winter and cool glasses of lemonade in summer. I want to take you to see the stars, and hear your stories about the constellations, and I want to just...watch you love the world. And love it with you.” Crowley ran out of words, closed his mouth and his eyes and held his breath.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “That. Oh, _Crowley_.” His voice was damp, and Crowley opened his eyes to see Aziraphale more than a little misty. “No, no, it's – I'm happy. I'm so happy,” he tried to explain. “I want all of that too. With you. Go on drives and go to plant shows and take you places you've never been before. Let you tempt me into anything you like.” He smiled. “And do this, of course.”

He leaned in and kissed Crowley.

It was clumsy, and lasted maybe a fraction of a second, but Aziraphale's lips touched Crowley's, and nothing in the whole universe could ever make that not be a thing that had happened.

“That,” Crowley said, his voice breaking a little. “Yes. That. Please.”

“With so much joy,” Aziraphale murmured, cupping Crowley's face in his hands, and going in again. This kiss lasted a little longer, was a little softer, and they figured out where noses had to go and what pressure felt good, and, in general, how to kiss.

They parted, wide-eyed and staring at one another. Option B1 felt a thousand miles away, impossible, unthinkable.

On the spot, Crowley decided to go with Option C: gather his angel close, feel Aziraphale's body heavy and warm in his arms, press themselves together and kiss, and kiss again, and kiss his way to Aziraphale's ear. “I love you,” he sang, very softly. “I love you, I've always loved you, I always will love you.”

Aziraphale, it turned out, could take Option C as well. And even the whiskey got temporarily forgotten, as it was no longer the most intoxicating thing in the room.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Michael Sheen's nose is VERY CUTE and I think we can all agree on that.  
\- I am forever cranky that Aziraphale wore gloves to handle the book, you do not need cotton gloves for that. Cotton gloves, in general, are absolute shit, they deaden sensation too much and can be terribly damaging. Nitrile or bare, clean hands, please.  
\- I also really like the idea that angels are basically Vulcans and by occasionally brushing against Crowley, Aziraphale is pretty much the Susie Bright of the angelic realms.  
\- Anthony J. 'my love language is acts of service' Crowley is an *awesome* boyfriend, which also rather sets him apart from the rest of Hell.


End file.
